


The Price of Freedom

by TheMissingSpleen



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Wolfenstein (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia, Bunch of Nazis, Crossover, Gore, Memory Loss, Psychological Torture, Torture, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingSpleen/pseuds/TheMissingSpleen
Summary: Set in the Wolfenstein Universe. Blazkowicz prepares to take down General Strasse, but at each crucial moment he is faced with a Nazi Doctor who shares a history with some of his closest allies.





	1. Camp Belicia

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I was surprised that no one has done a Wolfenstein X COD Zombies crossover before. So I wrote one myself. A thing about my writing style, it’s effectively a bunch of one-shots but in chronological order. I love reading books in this style so I thought I’d give it a go.  
> Parts of the fic are in German, all translations will be provided at the end of the chapter. If you recognise this, it’s because I have previously uploaded it to fanfiction.net and I never updated it. Why? Because I thought it was terrible. This is what I’m going to call a revised edition. Bit more detailed, bit less crappy in general.
> 
> What is this fanfic?  
> This is point blank gonna be NSFW. It contains Nazism, Sadism, BTK, violence, gore. It’s the kinda shit that if someone was to trace this back to me, I’d get sent to therapy, but hey wouldn’t we all.

Disclaimer  
I do not own any of the characters of names affiliated with Bethesda or Treyarch, yada yada yada.  
If you find anything wrong e.g. spelling, historically or something that is not canon, (but hey this is an AU so that shouldn’t apply), feel free to leave a comment. Thanks. Enjoy the story. It starts from Chapter 8 (Camp Belica) of Wolfenstein: The New Order. 

 

Slowly the prisoners began to form lines as they were called to inspection. These ‘inspections’ were common during the last two decades and would often last for hours. Forced to stand through all weathers for reasons even the Nazis didn’t seem to be sure of. Whether it was a kind of morbid parade or another torturous way to inflict pain, Blazkowicz did not know. But now, as hard labour seemed to be the most favoured punishment for criminals, the inspections ceased. So when an inspection was called, everyone expected the worst. Blazkowicz watched as two high-ranking Nazis began to stroll towards the group. They appeared to be deeply engrossed in a conversation that Blazkowicz could not understand. He recognised one of the pair. The one who only ever seemed to display anger. The one they called The Knife. Blazkowicz tensed and shifted his weight from one foot to another.  
The other man, Blazkowicz did not know. A wide grin was spread across his thin lips. He looked like a contrast to the other, but Blazkowicz knew they were the same.  
He quickly glanced at the men that surrounded him, he could see the fear in their eyes. The panic.  
He turned to the man beside him, wanting to know what exactly he was in for.  
“Who is he?” He muttered under his breath, but just loud enough for the man beside him to hear.  
The man stared in pure horror and disbelief. He kept his eyes forward, trying to ignore Blazkowicz. There was a reason for their manic fear.  
“The man on the right, who is he?” Blazkowicz repeated slightly louder. The man gave in, clearing wanting to answer the question before the Nazis got any closer.  
His reply was a hoarse whisper.  
“The Butcher.”  
He knew their names now, The Butcher and The Knife, it almost seemed fitting.

The one they called The Butcher began to lead The Knife along the rows of prisoners. Every now and again he would stop, point at a prisoner and state “diese hier”. The Knife would nod in agreement. When he eventually reached, Blazkowicz, however, the Butcher stopped. He studied the prisoner and Blazkowicz did the same. He would have passed for any old Kommandant who had retired rich from the war. His once black hair was shot through with grey. He had that scowl that all old officers seemed to wear, but it was his eyes that gave him away. He could see the insanity shining in the German’s acid green eyes. Insanity and lust.  
“Ein schönes Exemplar.” The German breathed in wonder. Slowly he reached out brushed his fingers over the scars that lined the side of his head. It took all of Blazkowicz’s will to resist the urge to punch the Nazi square in the face.  
“Er ist einer von Frau Engel.” The Knife replied, anger, jealousy flashed across his face. There was something strange going on here and Blazkowicz didn’t want any part of it. He switched his gaze between the two Nazis. They appeared to be having an argument of some kind.  
“Ich will ihn noch in Block 6.” The Butcher scowled, but not looking at his comrade behind him. His eyes were still focused on the prisoner before him, on Blazkowicz.  
“Nein. Ich kann das nicht.”  
“Sogar für die Frauen?” When The Knife did not instantly reply, the other grinned. Every inch of that twisted smile gave away the German’s twisted desires. He wanted to run, punch and simply vanish altogether, but he knew he had to walk this through. He had a mission.  
“Fein. Aber Sie wissen, wie Frau Engel bekommt, wenn Sie einen von ihr zu töten.” The Knife replied somewhat defeated.  
“Mach dir keine Sorgen.” The Butcher’s voice was laced with morbid intent. The Knife was jealousy aware of the power that his rank held over Frau Engel.  
Blazkowicz suddenly became aware of what exactly was going on. A sickening feeling began to rise in the back of his throat as it dawned on him that both the Knife and the Butcher were trading prisoners like children would cards on a playground.  
When the German finally moved on from Blazkowicz, he released a breath that he hadn’t realised that he was holding. The prisoners watched in silent horror as the Butcher continued his inspection and when he was finished, he returned back to the Knife.  
“Alles gut?”  
“Natürlich.”  
Both men nodded to the surrounding camp guards. Blazkowicz tensed as a guard grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him over to Block 5. This was a setback he didn’t want. Set Roth was now back in the other Block. Blazkowicz would have to find a way back over there.  
In total there were seven of them. Blazkowicz managed a glimpse behind him. About eight or nine prisoners were being dragged towards Block 6. All were female.  
The walk from Block 5 to Block 6 was short. It was now that Blazkowicz realised that all of the prisoners that the Butcher had chosen were all of a similar build to him. When they finally reached Block 6, Blazkowicz suddenly felt a feeling of dread wash over him. Through the electric fence, he noticed that this area of the camp was deathly quiet. No one was stood outside, casually leaning against the high concrete walls. No one was sat in the brief amount of shade that the wooden shack provided, of which they were forced to live in. They were all inside. Blazkowicz watched in silence as the gate was opened. The guard threw him into the block. He fell to his knees, the hard dirt ripping through the kneecaps of his clothing. He stumbled to his feet and wordlessly followed the others towards the small wooden hut.  
It was the smell that hit him first. The smell of blood and rot.  
It took a moment for Blazkowicz’s eyes to adjust to the limited light within the hut. He blinked rapidly. Bile rose to the back of his throat as the world around him came into focus. It was like being in the Medical Camp back in the war. He heard one of the men behind him give hoarse scream. All around them were bodies, bodies that had their arms missing, bodies that were missing their legs, bodies that were missing facial parts… eyes, ears. Bodies, all of the bodies stained a deep crimson. And somehow they were all moving.  
“What… what is this?” Blazkowicz whispered.  
“It’s-it’s the Butcher. We’re his now.” A man behind him began to shake. He would never learn his name. “No. That fence is better than this. I will not become his toy.” Blazkowicz grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform.  
“No. You will not give in to these Nazi scum.” Blazkowicz hissed through his teeth. “We will stand up and fight.”  
“The war’s over. Everyone knows that. We’ve lost.” The man began to pull himself away from Blazkowicz. “And now they can do whatever the fuck they want to us.” The man, it seemed, had an odd resemblance to Private Wyatt, back when they had first met, in the cockpit of a B-17. And Blazkowicz did the exact same thing the moment they met, he slapped him round the face. The man in front of Blazkowicz blinked rapidly, as if he could not understand what had just happened.  
“You’re in shock.” Blazkowicz uttered to the man. “You need to calm down. Deep breath, count to five, exhale.” And with that, Blazkowicz entered the small wooden hut, followed by the others.

When Blazkowicz woke up the next morning, he was not surprised to find that someone had killed themselves on the electric fence. Only disappointed. And he felt worse when he found out that it was the prisoner who had panicked when he had first entered the new block. Blazkowicz sat dejectedly on the wooden slats that formed a ‘bed’, trying to think up what to do next. He was too busy dreaming, that he didn’t notice when a young girl, no more than sixteen, came and sat next to him.  
Large chunks of her long blonde hair was missing, as if it had been ripped from its roots. There were deep cuts along her face, all seemingly strategically placed, as if she was some perverted form of art.  
“I believe in what you said yesterday.” The girl’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to pull Blazkowicz from his thoughts. Her voice, Blazkowicz realised, was hoarse from hours of screaming and crying.  
“They’re playing with fire, letting these murderers live freely.” The girl continued. “They’re ticking time bombs. Any day now, one of these murderers could turn on the Commanders.”  
“Well surely that’s a good thing?” Blazkowicz inquired.  
“You have been fortunate to have not met the Butcher like we have, but you must know that he is different to the rest of them.” She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Instead she sat staring at her shoeless feet. Blazkowicz could feel her fear, her instinct to run. He knew that if he pressed further, she could easily disappear. But he wanted information and so he continued.  
“What do you mean?” Blazkowicz was sure he knew the answer, he could see what she meant. No ordinary Nazi could get away with this level of slaughter.  
“The thing about the Butcher is he only goes for one type, unlike the rest.”  
“What do you mean by type?” The girl sighed at Blazkowicz’s words. Staring at herself as if she was cursed, wishing she was different.  
“Blond hair, blue eyes.” That explained a lot, nearly everyone in the Block matched that description.  
“But shouldn’t he be doing the opposite?” Everyone knew of the Nazi’s derranged obsession with Ubermenschen. Blazkowicz hated the attention it gave him, but truthfully it had saved his life on more than one occasion. But now though, it seemed like it would get him killed.  
“The man is a maniac. It’s most likely some kind of insane envy. He is by far the worst, and Frau Engel has no restraint over him. He gets away with almost anything.” Tears began to pool in the corners of her eyes. She turned away so that Blazkowicz would not see them, but still he knew.  
“That’s why so many of you are hurt.”  
The girl nodded. Still not turning to face Blazkowicz.  
“What’s your name?” He uttered it as gently as he could, not wanting to frighten the girl any more.  
“Tabitha.” She moved closer to the american.  
“Well, I’m Blazkowicz, and I’m gonna help you and the rest of this block.” The girl faced him, staring hard at him, frowning. Wet lines ran down her face.  
“He will hurt you, Mr Blazkowicz.” Gently Blazkowicz clasped her hand.  
“I was trained to hunt Nazis.”


	2. The Butcher of Belicia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go to plan when the Butcher is in town.

They came during the dead of night, but yet everyone instinctively woke up. When they realised what was happening, the prisoners began to push each other in front of them, as if offering one another to the guards. But instead the guards appeared to be searching for something in particular and it did not take long for them to find it. The two guards, dressed in their pitch black, almost robotic-like uniform grabbed Blazkowicz by his arms and hauled him out of the hut and into the darkness of the night.   
Blazkowicz knew what was to happen, but yet he did not struggle.   
He was lead through a maze of white tiled corridors that smelt strongly of disinfectant.  
It was only when Blazkowicz saw the heavily bloodstained metal slab, did he begin to struggle. He tried to pull himself away, but the guards grip was like iron and their armoured uniforms protected them from any blows that Blazkowicz could inflict. The two guards were also stronger than the American and appeared to have had experience in this situation. The pair lifted Blazkowicz onto the slab and quickly began fastening leather restraints around Blazkowicz’s arms, legs and head as if his struggles meant nothing.   
Once content that the prisoner wasn’t going anywhere, one of the guards left the room, the other stood and watched.   
Blazkowicz knew where the guard had gone; to fetch the man, the Butcher of Block 6. And sure enough, Blazkowicz could hear the faint click of jackboots echoing down the hall. He tensed and pulled against the restraints, in one last ditch attempt. The guard watched motionlessly.   
Blazkowicz was panicking. He had to free himself, he had to get away so he could finish this Nazi and put an end to their regime of terror, but as the sound grew louder, all of that seemed impossible.   
The door opened.  
The two guards left.  
The door closed. He was alone with the Butcher.  
“Guten Abend.” The Nazi smiled. Blazkowicz made no response, but the German ignored this.  
“Bevor ich beginne, möchte ich Ihren Namen wissen.” Once again Blazkowicz lay motionless.   
“Durch mich zu ignorieren, werden Sie nur es selbst verschlimmern.”  
“Oder vielleicht, man kann mich nicht verstehen.” The German paced around the room, fiddling with the knife in his hands.  
“Vielleicht…” The German muttered to himself and then switched languages. “Vhat is your name?”  
Blazkowicz made no response, but it was clear he had understood the question. Blazkowicz was prepared to answer none of the Nazi’s questions, no matter what he did to him, but then he thought better of it, after all, it may not just be him who would get punished.   
“William Blazkowicz.”  
“Blazkowicz, is zat a Polish name?”  
“I’m no Polack. I’m American.”  
The German’s eyes appeared to light up and the morbin grin drew wider.  
“It has been so very long since I have had an American subject.” The German drooled.  
Wrong answer.   
“My name is Doctor Edward Richtofen. Zhat vay you know vhat to scream.” He grinned then, as if telling some kind of hilarious joke. Blazkowicz pulled again on his restraints, not wanting to even look the German in the eye.  
“Tell me, vere you a marine?”  
Blazkowicz stopped, slowly daring to look at the manic Nazi.  
“What’s it to you?” Blazkowicz spat.   
“I have only ever met Marines. Zhey were supposed to be your best, were zhey not? But yet I found zhem zo easy to break.” The German broke eye contact, glancing at the door. “Pity.” Blazkowicz flinched, there seemed to be genuine remorse in the Nazi’s voice. The more the German kept talking, the more reasons he gave Blazkowicz for wanting to kill him. Nevertheless, his talking was buying Blazkowicz more time.  
“Rangers.”  
The German nodded, acknowledging, but not truly understanding Blazkowicz’s rank. He watched the German then, something in him seemed to change. The Nazi stared off into the corner of the room, his eyes glazed, a grim smirk returning to his face. There was something wrong with the man. Something really wrong.   
The glazed look in the German’s eye continued as he giggled, nearing the slab that bound Blazkowicz. The German caressed the knife in his hand. With no further conversation, the German trailed the knife along Blazkowicz’s chest, ripping through his clothing and revealing his bare torso. The American tensed, clenching his teeth, willing himself to remain silent. Tears began to well up in his eyes as the knife continued its journey along Blazkowicz’s body. He watched as the German stared longingly at the blood that began to run down his sides. Without even thinking the German brought his knife up to his lips and licked it clean. A soft moan escaped the Nazi, who shuddered in delight at the metallic taste. Blazkowicz watched in silence, unsure how to process what the Nazi had just done. Upon noticing the look of confusion on the American’s face, the German brought the knife to the side of Blazkowicz’s stomach.   
“Blood iz ze most wunderbar zhing in ze vorld, ja?”   
“You're messed up.” The German smiled and sunk the knife into his body. Blazkowicz growled in pain. The Nazi retracted the knife. Blazkowicz was now watching the German’s every move. Hunger shone in the German’s eyes as he slowly reached out and dipped his fingers into the wound. Blazkowicz hissed in pain, but continued to watch as the German licked his gloved hands clean. Slowly, The Butcher reached for Blazkowicz’s head and gently ran his thumb over the scars that adorned the side of Blazkowicz’s head. With every stroke, the American flinched and a small trail of blood was left behind.  
“Such vonderful scars you have, Blazkowicz.”  
“There’s a piece of shrapnel two inches long in there, and you think is wonderful?” The German moved in closer.  
“I could take it out for you.” The German continued to trace his hands over the scars, but with a firmer gesture. “Think of the screams and the cries of agony it would cause.” Richtofen moaned.  
“No!” Blazkowicz yelled as he pulled against his restraints, only causing the German to burst into a fit of laughter. “Get away from me, you freak.”  
“But my dear Blazkowicz, I am a qualified doctor and it would not take long.”  
“I don’t fucking care, I don’t fucking care what you do to me as long as you don’t go near my fucking brain.”  
“Zhat sounds like a bargain to me.”  
“Call it whatever you want.” Blazkowicz uttered defeated, but grateful that the crazy Nazi wouldn’t go near his head.   
“Vell in zhat case, if I can’t go near your head, zhen I vill have to take your spleen.” The German uttered in mock disappointment.  
“Wait, what?”  
“Oh do not worry, I have done zhis procedure many times. I might have accidentally killed a few patients, but zhese zhings happen.” The German giggled sheepishly before bringing his knife up to Blazkowicz’s chest. The American paled visibly. He hated to admit it, but he was scared, scared at being completely vulnerable in the hands of some psychopathic creature. He felt sick. His whole body felt warm. Sweat was running down his body. Was this it? Would he die? In the corner of his eye he watched the German as he dragged the blade along the skin, leaving a wake of red. Blazkowicz had been trying his hardest not to give the satisfaction of letting the German hear his screams, but it was becoming more and more difficult. A hoarse noise escaped from his throat.  
It did not take long for series of deep cuts to cover the majority of Blazkowicz’s torso.   
The German stared in wonder. He appeared mesmerised. The sight of the red liquid welling up from Blazkowicz’s skin was mouthwatering. The German licked his lips. Blazkowicz flinched as he once again noticed the look of hunger in the German’s eyes, hunger and lust.   
He could not restrain himself any longer. The German climbed on top of the operating table, on top of Blazkowicz. Not liking where this was going. Blazkowicz began to pull as his restraints, shifting his weight to try and get the Nazi off him, but instead the German grabbed Blazkowicz’s arms and pinned him down. The German was now lying on top of Blazkowicz. He was used to having people lie on top of him, but they were always women. Slowly, the Nazi lowered his head and trailed his tongue along the bleeding cuts on Blazkowicz’s chest. A moan of arousal escaped the German as the blood filled his mouth.  
“Get the fuck off me.”   
“Nein.” The German breathed. “Not vhen I have only just begun.” The Nazi reached for his knife and moved closer to Blazkowicz’s face. They were right on top of each other. Slowly and deliberately, the German trailed the knife along Blazkowicz’s left cheek. He hissed at the pain. The German and the American were face to face. Blazkowicz tried to turn his head away, but the German grabbed his head and held him down. The German shifted out of Blazkowicz’s view. He felt something warm and wet trail over the wound, causing it to sting. A continuation of moans told him that the German was licking the wound. He felt the German’s tongue probe the wound to release more blood. Blazkowicz tried to shake the Nazi off him, but the other held him fast.   
Moaning forced the German to withdraw from the wound. Blazkowicz could feel the Nazi’s ragged breath against his neck. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, panting. Blazkowicz felt something hard against his crotch. He flinched in disgust when he realised it was the Nazi’s own. He tried to squirm and writhe in order to get the hard German off him. The American’s wriggling drew the German’s attention back to his subject. He drew closer, as if to kiss him on the neck. He could feel the German’s breath, smell it. Blazkowicz gagged, It smelt like rotting flesh. He could feel him licking the crook of his neck. Suddenly, thoughts of a different kind of torture entered Blazkowicz’s mind.   
Blazkowicz screamed. A searing pain shot through the crook of Blazkowicz’s neck. He had expected the Nazi to stab him, cut him, hit him, but never did he expect him to bite him. He could feel the skin giving way to muscle as the German’s teeth sunk into his flesh. The German began to moan as the metallic liquid filled his mouth. His grip on the American suddenly slackened and Blazkowicz felt blood begin to run down his shoulder.   
The German sat up, the wound still bleeding. Blood was running down the German’s chin. His blood. This and the pure look of insanity, caused panic to wash over Blazkowicz.   
“Oh, I just want to drain your blood and bathe in it!” The German groaned as he trailed his hands over the American’s body.   
“You’re fucked up!” Blazkowicz shouted.  
“Why zhank you!” The German smiled as he dismounted the table. Blazkowicz eased and breathed a sigh of relief that the loony was now no longer on top of him.   
He watched in the corner of his eye as the German placed the knife on the table beside him and picked up a large glass beaker containing a clear liquid.  
“You... giving up... already, kraut?” But the German’s evil smile told the American otherwise. The German poured the contents of the beaker over Blazkowicz’s chest. He tensed, the liquid smelt like benzine. At first he didn’t feel anything, other than being wet. Then he felt it. It felt as if his skin was on fire or a thousand hot needles were being stabbed into his wounds. Tears welled up in Blazkowicz’s eyes, but he wouldn’t let the German see them. He yelled in pain, and by instinct he tried to cover over his open wounds, but the restraints stopped him. He tried desperately to breathe, but his whole body stung. The fumes from the liquid made him nauseous.  
Beside him, he could hear the German laughing uncontrollably as he screamed in agony.   
Blazkowicz did not know how he lay there crying out in pain as the German laughed. Everything seemed incoherent know. He opened his eyes and stared at his grotesque inflamed skin as it leaked a watery red. His vision began to blur, his hearing gone, replaced by a buzzing. Blazkowicz felt like he was falling, unable to distinguish between illusion and reality. A sudden jolt of pain made Blazkowicz scream his way back to the room. He watched in horror as the German buried the tip of a knife into the left side of his abdomen. The knife sunk deeper and Blazkowicz screamed louder. Content with the cut that he had made, the German discarded his knife and plunged his hand into wound.   
A wave of nausea overcame Blazkowicz as he felt the German’s hand inside his body. Blazkowicz wretched and gagged, but vomited nothing.   
Satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, the German reached for his knife and cut free the organ.  
Blazkowicz’s vision was blurring. He looked up one final time to see the German cradling a small dark red organ in his hands as he continued his demented laughing, before finally losing consciousness. The German watched as Blazkowicz’s body went limp.

He could feel someone pulling him to his feet. The sudden rush of standing up caused his vision to fade completely for a moment, before slowly flickering back. He could see the two black silhouettes of the guards that dragged him. He felt the dirt floor of the camp before he saw it. The dirt was cool and soothing. He didn’t want to move. He couldn’t move.  
Blazkowicz swayed as he embraced the escape that was unconscious.  
The prisoners of Block 6 waited a few moments before finally approaching Blazkowicz, and when they did a few of them gagged in horror as they began to take in his wounds. They stared at Blazkowicz like a piece of art, the latest masterpiece by the Butcher.   
“Why is he still alive?”  
“Not why, how.”  
“Do you think he will make it?”  
“I’m not sure.” The other prisoners began to gather around Blazkowicz, like ritualistic display, all muttering questions or remarks about his condition.  
Slowly and carefully they carried Blazkowicz into the wooden shack and laid him on one of the beds of wooden slats. They began to bind his bleeding wounds with the ripped sleeves and legs of their prison uniforms. This was not the first time they had done this and they all knew that it would not be the last.   
They worked in silence. No words could describe his injuries.  
A man hissed in pain, clutching his hand. His fingers were red and blistering.   
“There is acid in his wounds.”  
The prisoners looked around at each other frantically. Water was rationed. One cup three times a day. Most of the prisoners had already drunk their meager ration. Together though, they were able to pool together about half a cup of water. They dipped the fabric that was their uniforms into the cup, hoping that it may dilute the acid. But as they bound the wounds, they became increasingly aware of how deep some of the cuts were and of a large incision on Blazkowicz’s lower abdomen.   
“He’s taken his spleen.” The words need not be uttered. They had all seen that tell tale stitching of the wound before and it only meant one thing.   
“We are going to need medical supplies if he is to live.” The lonely voice of one of the prisoners hung in the air for a minute or two of silence.  
“Go and get Set Roth.” 

When Blazkowicz came to, his whole body ached. His vision was blurry. His eyes would not focus, so he closed them again. He could feel bile rising to the back of his mouth. He wretched a bright yellow.   
“Get him some water.” The voice he heard sounded distorted, drowned out by the buzzing of his incoherent mind. He felt a cool liquid slide down the back of his mouth and then throat, washing away the taste of acid.   
“Blazkowicz?” He gingerly turned his head towards the speaker. The man was old, his face marked with lines of time. What was left of his hair was a silvery gray. But despite his aging appearance, there was something in his eyes, behind his wire rimmed spectacles, something that screamed youth.  
“Set Roth?” Blazkowicz muttered. His voice still painfully dry.   
“Ah, so you do know me.” He gave a ghost of a smile. His eyes trailing from Blazkowicz’s face down to the collection of wounds that covered his body.   
“I was supposed to rescue you, not the other way around.” He attempted to smile, but only found himself wincing in pain from the long cut along his cheek. He hoped it wouldn’t scar. He’d end up looking like a Nazi officer. Like those with fencing scars adorned across their face.  
“Do not worry, that still may be accomplished, but first you must recover.” Despite his condition, Set’s words sounded hopeful. He ignored the older man and tried to sit up. For the first time Blazkowicz examined his wounds. What he saw made his head swim, first in nausea, then in hatred. He wanted to gut that Nazi for what he had done to him. No one had the right to justify what he had done to him and dozens like him.  
“He took a shine to you.” Set said bitterly. Blazkowicz groaned.   
“He took out one of my organs.”   
“Your spleen.” Blazkowicz stared at the stitched wound. Despite that fact that it had been inflicted by a madman, the wound looked professionally stitched. More questions began to race through the American’s mind.   
“It means he doesn’t want to kill you, or won’t intentionally anyway.” Set continued.   
“That’s reassuring.” Blazkowicz rolled his eyes.   
“Although it is most peculiar.” Set moved in closer, gently tracing his fingers over the wounds.   
“What is?” Blazkowicz watched in anticipation, worried that the Nazi had one last card up his sleeve, one last morbid gift for him. But as his eyes met Set’s Blazkowicz knew that wasn’t the case. His face was of shocked wonder.  
“Your wounds are healing quickly.”  
Blazkowicz said nothing, his body still ached. His wounds were no longer bleeding, they were, Blazkowicz noticed, already beginning to scab over. Surely that was impossible. Around eight hours ago, Blazkowicz was sure he was going to die at the hands of the crazed Nazi.  
“He injected you with something, do you know what it was?”  
Blazkowicz paled. What exactly had the German pumped into his veins? What would happen to him? What if it was a slow acting poison? He felt violated, disgusted with his own internals. He suddenly felt the urge to vomit again.   
“I don’t remember any needles.” He whispered, swallowing rising bile.  
Set merely frowned, scratching his chin. Clearly he didn’t find the scenario as horrific as Blazkowicz did.   
“He is not supposed to be experimenting if General Strasse or Frau Engel knew-” Set murmured to himself, but just loud enough for the American to hear. To hear too much.   
“What?” Blazkowicz yelled. He felt like he was in the dark, stumbling around. He felt like there was something else going on, something that had just dragged him along with it. He gave a pleading look to the older man, who noticed Blazkowicz’s distress.  
“The Butcher is not who you think he is Blazkowicz, but you will find out soon enough. But first you must rest, and I must find a battery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> “Guten Abend.” - Good evening  
> “Bevor ich beginne, möchte ich Ihren Namen wissen.” - Before I begin, I want to know your name  
> “Durch mich zu ignorieren, werden Sie nur es selbst verschlimmern.” - By ignoring me, you’ll only make it worse  
> “Oder vielleicht, man kann mich nicht verstehen.” Or maybe you cannot understand me  
> “Vielleicht.” - Perhaps
> 
> So I gave up on writing my dialog in German as you will later on see. If you want me to change this, let me know, but I know someone’s gonna be like “why they speaking English if they’re in Berlin?” Also I started writing this, before The New Colossus came out so things may change or don’t make sense etc.


	3. Escape

The doctor entered the room in a once white lab coat, a coat that had long since been stained red. Upon him entering the room, fellow doctors and officers called out to him, gesturing for him to take a seat. The hall that he found himself in was a small bar, the opposite side of the prison complex to the officer’s command building. He did not come here regularly, only if he had run out of work to commit himself too, something that very rarely happened. And in truth, his fellow officers and doctors were glad of this as they found Dr Edward Richtofen one disturbed man indeed.  
“Ahh, Herr Doctor.” The other officers greeted as the man in question sat down next to them.   
The bartender, a woman of similar age and build to Frau Engel watched the newcomer in distant disgust. The mad Doctor, that’s what they called him. The other soldiers she knew how to control when things got out of hand, but not him.   
In their drunken haze, they began to tell stories of their adventures, some from the camp, some from the war. When it came to the mad doctors turn however, the bartender couldn’t stand to be in the same room. She turned her back on him, pretending to work, but yet she could still hear his jarringly high-pitched voice as he recited another horrifically gory tale.   
“And so I mailed him her severed hand.” The doctor fell about the room in laughter, the other drunk officers did the same. But it was his insane laughter that set her on edge. She hated it.   
“What’s wrong mein Frau?” Richtofen teased upon noticing the woman’s look of disgust. He gave a twisted smile. “Is this story not good enough for you?”  
“You sicken me. You should not be able to get away with what you do.”  
At the bartender’s words the room seemed to fall silent. You never challenged an officer and you should definitely never challenge an insane one.   
“I’d be careful if I were you.” His voice was dark, “You may well become one of my next subjects.”  
He then burst into another fit of crazed laughter.  
The room seemed to fill with a nervous tension. The other officers pretended to return to their drinks, but instead they kept on eye on the mad doctor, just in case something became difficult.   
“Have you seen what happened to a prisoner in Block 2?” It was one of the officers, attempting breaking the deadly tension that was beginning to form.   
“No.” The doctor broke eye contact with the bartender. The conversation around them slowly resumed.   
“He tried to escape and got his arm ripped off by a panzerhund.” The officer dearly hoped that mad doctor might find this funny, but instead he was met with narrowing eyes.  
“Panzerhunds are programmed to kill escaping prisoners.” The doctor uttered bitterly.  
“Ja, and I don’t know why you know that. That’s classified information, even for you.”  
Richtofen narrowed his eyes at the officer’s words of caution before returning to his drink. Choosing to remain silent.   
“There is nothing wrong with the panzerhund. A soldier stopped it before it could kill him.”  
Richtofen still remained silent, but the officer could see the man’s grip tightening around his glass. He interpreted it as the mad doctor’s anger at the soldier for letting the prisoner live, but as the officer continued the conversation, he found himself in doubt.   
“Perhaps you would like to inspect the prisoner?” The officer urged, not liking the look in the mad doctor’s eyes.   
“No.” Richtofen hissed. His gripped tightening even more to the extent that the officer surely thought the glass would break.   
Then suddenly, he relinquished. He pushed the glass aside and rose from his seat.   
“I think I shall return to my work.” The Doctor uttered before leaving the room. The men stared at each other, in relief, in confusion.   
“There is a reason he holds such a high rank.” It was another doctor, who until now has remained silent through the whole episode. He nodded at them, a warning for them to heed his advice, before he too left the bar. 

The one they called The Knife lay dead on the ground. A pool of red leaking from his stomach where a knife herein lay. Blazkowicz pulled the knife from the body and signalled for the other prisoners to follow him. Around them lights flashed red and sirens deafened them as they made their way to Herr Faust, and to Set Roth.   
Blazkowicz had a vague idea of how to get to his destination, but as the white tiles once again lined the walls, his heart sunk. He had been here before, and so had the others. These rooms belonged to the Butcher. Blazkowicz slowed and cautiously checked each room. Whilst he didn’t find the Butcher, what he saw made bile rise to the back of his throat. Of the four small rooms he checked, three held operating tables, stained red. Blazkowicz entered one of the rooms. Strapped to the table was a body. He watched as the terrified, mutilated being took it last shallow breaths before becoming still. Blazkowicz swallowed and left the room with a new sense of purpose. He was going to skin that Nazi alive.   
The last room was a storage room. It held medical supplies and other increments for healing. None of which, Blazkowicz imagined, had ever been used for what they were intended.   
Blazkowicz took bandages and lotions and dispersed them amongst the others.  
“Look what we have here, Irene will be pleased.” Behind him was an officer Blazkowicz did not know, but the others seemed to recognise. He thought, perhaps, that he had maybe seen this officer with Frau Engel when he first entered the camp. Blazkowicz scowled as he raised his knife at the officer’s Luger. The officer smiled, ready to shoot, but Blazkowicz was not the only one armed.  
A prisoner moved from behind the German and held him hostage, a knife against his neck. Blazkowicz edged closer so he could finish the Nazi and take his much needed pistol.  
“Uh oh, has Herr Vinkle got himself in a situation?” The voice giggled childishly as he nonchalantly slipped his bowie knife into the back of the prisoner holding the officer hostage. He has seemingly appeared from nowhere. Everyone shifted away from the crazed Doctor. Winkle stepped aside from the fallen prisoner. He straightened his cap before aiming his Luger at the prisoners. Winkle and the Butcher stood side by side as the band of prisoners divided, revealing their leader.   
“Vell look vhat we have here.” The Doctor smiled as Blazkowicz came into view. The American stared at the Butcher. His stained leather apron tied over his black uniform, his bowie knife in his hand.  
“Oh I don’t know if I will have time to torture you all” He spoke to blade in his hands. He caressed it lovingly, smearing the blood over his finger tips.  
“Your going to hell, psycho!” Blazkowicz yelled as anger and fury flashed across his face. The German merely laughed.  
“Such defiance! It will be a pleasure to break you, William Blazkowicz.” The look of hunger shone in the German’s eyes and Blazkowicz knew that he must act. He charged at the German, his own knife aimed at the German’s throat, but the German deflected it with his much larger Bowie knife. Blazkowicz shouted in pain and shock, his hand had got caught between the two blades. A deep cut ran over the back of his right hand. Blazkowicz dropped the knife and held his wounded hand. It was bleeding heavily. The German threw back his head and began his twisted laughter. The other glanced between their wounded leader and the insane being the blocked their way to freedom.   
Winkle merely watched, wanting no part of this saga.   
He was caught off guard. Lost in his twisted happiness, he did not expect any retaliation. The other prisoners lunged at him and dragged the Butcher to one of the operating tables. Winkle deserted before the others could get to him. They bound the Butcher’s head, legs and arms. The German’s grin still remained, even as Blazkowicz entered the cell, his hand bandaged and in his left hand the knife.   
“Me and you are gonna have some fun, Doctor.” Blazkowicz brought the knife up to the German’s torso.  
“Oh, I bet ve are.” The German giggled. Annoyed by this response, Blazkowicz began to hack and slash, only to be met with high-pitched laughter. Angered, the American continued and the laughter began to morph to into moans. Blazkowicz smiled, thinking that finally he had got to the German. But then he froze, it wasn’t that kind of moaning.  
“Oh it hurts zo gut.” The German panted as he moaned once again. Blazkowicz grabbed the jaw of the German and held his knife over his eye.   
“You fucking loony. What’s wrong with you?!” Blazkowicz yelled in disgust. The German began to giggle.  
“Blazkowicz leave him, we do not have time.” The prisoners tried to pull the American away.  
“I’m gonna make this Kraut scream if it’s the last thing I do!” He brought the knife down hard on the German’s torso and began to drag it over his body.   
The German stopped laughing.  
For a moment there was a look of pain and shock… and then nothing. He looked at the ceiling with blank eyes. Blazkowicz became certain that he had killed the officer and checked his pulse. But the officer was still breathing and a rapid pulse could be felt. Blazkowicz looked at him. He looked distant. Annoyed that this was an act, Blazkowicz trailed the knife along the German’s cheek bone. The cut was deep and Blazkowicz could feel the knife trail across bone, but yet the German made no noise. He did not flinch.   
“Blazkowicz, he’s gone.” This time the prisoners did manage to pull Blazkowicz away. He looked back over his shoulder before leaving the Butcher’s complex.  
“To use his words, ‘broken’.”

They could see Herr Faust and inside the robot sat Set Roth. Bullets and missiles rained down on the Nazis as he defended his position. Only there was one problem.  
Between Set Roth and the prisoners stood a band of soldiers … and Frau Engel. She began to shout orders and the soldiers opened fire. Only a few of the prisoners made it to cover. The rest were slaughtered. The soldiers began to move closer, but what they did not realise was that Herr Faust stood behind them. A rapid fire of bullets took out most of the soldiers. Those who did not move fast enough were thrown sideways by the robot, or merely squashed as they froze in shock. Engel stared in disbelief. She shot at the robot, only for her bullets to be deflected. Herr Faust grabbed the female officer by the face. There was a sickening crack as he writhed and squirmed. The robot threw her several feet, where she did not move.   
Content that there were no more Germans, Blazkowicz ran over to Set were he mounted the ghastly robot.   
From there on, Blazkowicz lay down covering fire as the prisoners made there way to the garage and entered the many transports. 

With the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the escape felt like it had only taken seconds. Blazkowicz looked over his shoulder as he left the camp. Immediately, Blazkowicz raised his pistol at the target that was following him. Behind him was the Butcher. His uniform in tatters, blood seeping into his shirt. The cut below his eye was bleeding profusely, as red streamed down his cheek and neck. He stood there motionlessly as he watched Blazkowicz take aim. The permanent grin had been wiped from his face. Instead there was a blank expression, one that Blazkowicz could not understand. Blazkowicz expected the German to call for backup, now that he had found the escapees, but he did not. He just watched with some kind of faint interest.   
“What’s he doing?” A prisoner from behind him called.  
“I don’t know.” Blazkowicz continued his aim, waiting for any recognition in the German’s eyes. It never came. “I don’t think he knows either.”   
“Someone fucked him up real good. And we pushed him overboard.” He could hear the others sniggering in victory behind him.  
And with that, he fired.   
The shot was centre and true, striking the Nazi in the centre of his chest. He collapsed to the ground unmoving.   
He never even made a sound.   
He must have been well and truly fucked up in the head.  
Blazkowicz grimaced. He never did make that German scream.   
He stared at the floor of the truck as it slowly began to accelerate away.


	4. Survival

Winkle cautiously climbed the stairs that led to the top floor of the Camp Command Building. The top floor consisted of living quarters for officers, but now it resembled more of an infirmary. He approached the door furthest down the corridor, a door that nearly everyone tried to avoid. Number 115. Slowly, he pulled the brass door handle down and silently entered the room. Laying on top of his bed was Richtofen. With his eyes closed he looked peacefully asleep. He was motionless. His torn uniform had been replaced and a series of bandages covering the wounds that Blazkowicz had inflicted.  
“How is he?” Winkle asked one of the several doctors that were swanning over the floor.  
“He is in shock. We have spoken with Strasse and he says that he will recover quickly.”  
“But he was shot in the chest?” Winkle nearly cried out in disbelief at the doctor’s words. He had seen the man with his own eyes laying deathly still in a pool of his own blood, a hole in his chest. Not many people could survive that, let alone recuperate almost immediately.  
“He will recover quickly.” The doctor pressed, clearly not wanting to elaborate further. Winkle sighed. Strasse’s knowledge over this man perplexed him. He also had no idea why Strasse would need to be informed about a seemingly random officer being injured. He was well aware of Richtofen’s disturbing behaviour, everyone was, but what did Strasse have to do with that?  
“Strasse has given me a stimulant for him.” The doctor informed before anymore elaborate theories could fill Winkle’s head. He turned away from Richtofen and approached Winkle. He looked back, checking that he was out of earshot from the other doctors. “As your wife is having surgery and Richtofen is in this state, then you are the camp commander, Herr Winkle.” His tone, despite quiet, was still forceful.  
“I know.” Winkle sighed, breaking eye contact and staring at the polished wood flooring.  
In the absence of his wife, he was well aware of the orders for collective punishment after the escape of the prisoners, but he could not bring himself to do it. He knew he was letting down his wife with every second he wasted in not ordering it, but he also knew he was abided to watch and Hans never could stand the sight of blood. He left the room and wandered down the stairs to his wife’s office.  
Hans sat down and began to carry out only the most basic of paperwork. He thumbed through the stack he had been left and sighed. Truthfully he had no idea what he was doing. He was never supposed to have taken this role. He had only been promoted thanks to his wife. He poured himself a small glass of whiskey and leant back in his chair. The large building was deathly quiet, save for the distant shuffling of doctor upstairs. He frowned. The paperwork in front of him stared back at him. Orders for the deaths of dozens. Just looking at it made him feel ill. He wished he had remained a Captain in the Reichsmarine. You never saw any real combat that way. It seemed so simple back then. He wanted to run away.  
But that would be deserting and that was the reason he was in the scenario in the first place. The reason the unstable doctor lay injured in a bed upstairs.  
Or so he thought.  
Too caught up in his own self pity, Winkle failed to hear the door to the office open, but upon hearing it close, he visibly flinched, nearly knocking the whiskey tumbler off the desk. His head snapping round to locate the intruder.  
“Herr Kommandant.” Hans froze at the sound of the high pitched voice he had come to loathe. But then surely not? This man had been lying unconscious, not, Hans checked his watch, not more than two hours ago. He felt like a rabbit caught in headlights.  
“What is it that you want, Herr Richtofen?” Winkle swallowed watching as the Doctor, dressed in full uniform, slowly entered the office.  
“I merely wished to see how you are coping?” The man’s tone of voice sent alarm bells ringing in his head. His mock-kindness made him sneer. There was a reason this man had come to see him, despite his horrific injuries and he had a gruesome idea as to why.  
“It is I who should be asking that question.” Winkle gestured to deep wound along the other’s cheek and chest, trying to dissuade his panicking thoughts.  
“I am fine. It will heal.” Winkle gave a questioning murmur as Richtofen continued. “Have you carried out the orders Frau Engel gave you?” He glanced behind Winkle, at the incomplete paperwork scattered across the desk.  
“I, er, no, not yet.” Winkle stammered.  
“Is there a reason for this, Herr Kommandant?” Richtofen gave a patronising smile, knowing full well the answer to his question.  
“Now that you have recovered, there is no need to call me Kommandant.” Winkle stated, trying to change the subject. He momentarily succeeded. “Oh and I have a message from Strasse.” Winkle smiled, fishing through the paperwork for the scrap of a telegram. Thankful that he had finally gotten off that subject.  
The officer gave a look of disgust. Ignoring him, Winkle continued.  
“He says that he will visit so that he can check up on you.” The sudden change in the Doctor’s mood threw him. He noticed the change all too late, watching as Richtofen’s malicious grin snapped into a hateful snarl. As a result, Winkle stood at the forefront of the Doctor’s outburst.  
“What?! I am not a child!” The officer in front yelled, causing Winkle to take half a step backwards. He wondered how someone could have a complete lack of control over their emotions. But the more Winkle pondered that, the more he believed that the Doctor only held two emotions, hatred and that perverted happiness.  
“He merely wished to see if you had suffered any side effects to the stimulant.” Winkle tried his best to force a smile, trying to calm the unstable man before him down.  
“I know what side effects are. I am a doctor.” Richtofen hissed, his hands balled into fists, but he could see the other man’s doubt. “Unless you disagree, Herr Winkle.” The Doctor sneered. It never was a question. Winkle had learnt that from the start. It was a statement. Disagree and feel the wrath of those above you. Richtofen was playing a dangerous game, he was just waiting for his chance.  
“Nein, Herr Kommandant.” Winkle snapped automatically.  
“Good.” The officer’s morbid grin returning to his face. He turned to leave the office, when he froze, clearly in two minds about something. Winkle cautiously approached the door, hoping to make a dash for it before Richtofen revealed his true intentions for visiting him. But it was this action that caused the Doctor to turn around, blocking the exit and forcing Winkle back into the office. He paled. He had seen that look before upon the madman’s face and it was never a good sign.  
“I believe you have forgotten something, Hans.” Richtofen purred, slowly stalking the other man. Winkle sighed, hoping that he hadn’t once again returned to the topic of his wife’s orders.  
How wrong he was.  
“I saved your life, Herr Winkle.” The officer flinched visibly, realising where the conservation was headed. “And you deserted me. I could have you executed for that.”  
Edward smiled then, as if toying with the idea. He knew that the man could and would get him executed if only for his sadistic pleasure. His heart was racing in his chest.  
“I… I… there were too many of them. I went to get reinforcements.” Winkle lied, stammering and failing miserably.  
The other pondered the answer with a sly smile.  
He hated Richtofen with every fibre in his being. Hans knew what was happening, but yet he seemed at a complete loss as to what he could do about it. Being face to face with a madman that you’ve just wronged is never likely to have a good outcome.  
“I want you to return the favour… for saving your life.” He gave a sickly sweet smile.  
“What is it that you want?” Winkle uttered the question without his voice wavering, something that he was grateful for.  
Richtofen had begun to slowly creep closer, his soft smile widening to a twisted grin.  
“You once said to me that you despise the smell of warm blood.” Winkle swallowed, He knew precisely what this man wanted and it sickened him. He should have been executed years ago, but he had connections, connections that allowed him to bear a higher rank than he.  
“Well I absolutely adore it.” Restraint was evident in his voice. Richtofen gave a soft moan. His eyes hooded. Winkle flinched, what the hell was he supposed to do if even thinking about blood turned him on? “And I...” Richtofen panted, “...want yours.” He had already drawn his knife. Winkle stared at it. The dull metal failing to reflect the light, instead revealing the many notches and scratches that adorned the blade. Yes, it was well used alright. Winkle didn’t need telling twice. He slowly edged his gaze to his would be torturer. The fresh cut running under the doctor’s eye, only emphasising his look of madness.  
“Edward, no. You need time to recover. You need to think your actions through.” Winkle pleaded, trying to shift himself away, but only to end up being shoved against the wall by the other officer. His shoulders colliding painfully with the brickwork.  
“I have been longing to do this, and for your actions you must be punished.” He could feel Richtofen’s rapid breath, his minimal restraint failing him.  
“Bitte nicht.” Winkle edged away, attempting to creep closer to the door. “I’ll do anything, just please don’t hurt me.”  
The Doctor gave a malicious smile, crushing the man against the wall to stop him escaping. They were centimetres apart.  
“Then perhaps one of your children will suffice.” Hans Winkle knew that the remark was nothing more than a taunt. A taunt to instill fear and make him bow before the other in fright, but instead, Winkle found himself genuinely considering the offer. He knew what Frau Engel would have done in this situation.  
Richtofen stared at the other in curiosity.  
“No, you will not hurt me or my family.” The words held defiance, but Winkle’s eyes were filled with fear. Richtofen grinned.  
“I feel differently.” Richtofen chided as he slowly moved in closer. He could feel the doctor’s breath against his flushed skin. In hindsight, Winkle felt like he could have done more to stop the insane being from hurting him, but fear, it makes one do strange things.  
He was pinned against the wall, the other smiled as he brought his knife into Winkle’s line of vision.  
He did not squirm, he did not wriggle, instead, Winkle stood frozen, sure that if he was to move, to try and force himself from the officer’s clutches it would cause more harm than good.  
Richtofen had in truth, expected Winkle to scream the moment he saw the worn knife and to his amazement he did not. Not even when the lunatic had cut through his dress shirt and skin so that blood welled up behind it, staining the fabric, Winkle did not scream. Instead he gave a stifled moan of pain. It was the third cut that caused it. A cut worryingly close to the man’s spleen. He screamed so loudly that the doctor was sure that everyone within the building heard it. But yet no one came to aid him. It was a scream filled with pain and fear.  
The twisted grin immediately returned to the doctor’s face. Laughing at Winkle’s sudden break down. He was forced to cover his mouth with his free hand to try and stop his giggling.  
Winkle fainted.  
Winkle couldn’t remember when everything turned black and when he eventually awoke the next morning his whole body ached and stung. As he slowly got to his feet, nausea overtook him, causing him to stagger. He mustered up the courage to see what wounds the lunatic had inflicted. Four long cuts along his abdomen. He felt even more unnerved when he realised that the wounds had been stitched. Had the Doctor done that? And why? Winkle was at a loss. Surely he could have inflicted more damage upon him? (not that he was ungrateful for the Doctor’s newfound restraint) He had heard tales of the madman killing other officers, calling them experiments. So why wasn’t he dead?  
Winkle didn’t want to ponder it any longer. He tore himself out of his bloodied clothing and made his way to the bathroom. Washing away the dried blood that stained his skin.  
For the next few days, Captain Winkle began to act oddly around the acting Camp Kommandant. They all knew what this meant, and everyone eagerly anticipated Frau Engel’s return. 

Blazkowicz sat on the edge of his bed in the small hideout that had been his home for the past few months. In his hand was a newspaper, it had become is daily obsession. He thumbed through the thin paper, trying desperately to find some information on the aftermath of Camp Belica’s destruction. The only thing he had found was a list of officers killed in an obituary at the front of the paper. But worryingly enough, there was no Richtofen. He spied the Knife and many other ‘doctors’. But yet there was no Richtofen. Since then he had found nothing on the man and he was beginning to doubt if that really was his name.  
Set Roth knew something, though. He had pestered and bugged him for weeks, but yet he would tell him nothing, only that they would meet him again.  
Blazkowicz did not have time for the man’s cryptic puzzles and continued his searches through the mountains of Nazi propaganda.  
From a distance Caroline Becker watched silently behind him, her face wrinkled in disgust and amongst other things, doubt. She had been watching Blazkowicz commit this chore for many weeks. She had heard his outbursts at Set when he would not let slip any information. She moved quietly away, careful not to disturb the determined American, thankful for the quietness of her wheelchair. Slowly she made her way to the back to the comm room, where she knew she’d find Set.  
He did not need to say anything when he saw Caroline coming, he could read it in his eyes, but still she voiced her question.  
“You will not tell him about Edward?” He had been on their minds for months now. Set remained silent, as if ignoring the subject altogether. The tension was stifling. Caroline noticed, frowning. Not even she could get answers. Just when he was about to leave, did Set speak.  
“In time, Caroline. In time.” His voice was weak.  
“Why? I see no danger.” Caroline hissed, anger seeping through her words. Truthfully she saw the opposite of danger, it might do them some good to finally be able to understand.  
“You know how Blazkowicz treats Nazis,” Set insisted, his voice too rising in anger. “The moment he sees one he will kill them and bearing in mind what Edward has done, there is surely no reason for him to live.” She flinched at the coldness of his words, destroying any anger she still held.  
“So if not kill him, then what?”  
“I want to talk to him.” Caroline stared at him in disbelief, as if she had just been told that she would walk again. Had he not seen what Edward Richtofen had done and what he would do again? Had he not spent months living alongside this murderer?  
“Talk to him?” Her words were incredulous. “Set, Edward is gone.”

“Edward. You have changed.” The wide grin that seemed to be permanently etched into the Butcher’s face suddenly vanished. Instead, a look of pure hatred shrouded him. The grip on his knife visibly tightening. The prisoner flinched, waiting for the imminent deep cut that he would inflict. But it never came.  
“What do you want, Herr Strasse?” The Butcher turned around to face the General. He had known that Strasse would at some point visit him, but what he hadn’t expected was him to walk straight in whilst he ‘treated’ one of the prisoners.  
The pair studied each other. Strasse looked at the leather apron that hid his uniform, so gruesomely bloodstained, his black leather gloves were practically dripping. This was not the Edward he had known.  
“I see that you have joined the SS.” The General referred to the Butcher’s dark grey uniform, almost with a tone of disgust. “Herr Brigadefuhrer.” Strasse added with spite.  
“The Wehrmacht could offer me no more.” Richtofen retorted, not even making eye contact with his superior, instead he fidgeted with the blade in his hands.  
“So you became a torturer. Edward, this is not you.” He still refused to make eye contact, but by just hearing those words, Richtofen was sure he could hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He tried his best to hide his anger.  
“Not a torturer. Information research and extraction for the Gestapo.” He spoke calmly, turning to face the General. There eye’s locking. “I was promoted to this position.”  
“I see, Herr Brigadefuhrer.” Strasse spoke carefully. He could see something in the younger man’s eyes. Something that he had not seen for a very long time. It unnerved him. He tried to think back to the last time he’d seen it, but truthfully he couldn’t recall. Had it been before his own accident?  
“Why are you here?” Richtofen’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. His voice icy and dangerous. It took a moment for Strasse to respond.  
“I want to make you my Chief Scientist.” Richtofen snorted, returning back to the prisoner bound before him. Strasse watched in silence as he traced his fingers over the open wounds he had inflicted. The prisoner gave a muffled cry of pain.  
Then there was silence as they both attempted to unravel one another’s motives.  
“I see.” Edward finally answered, but spoke to the prisoner before him. “Why do you want me to return, what do you want from me?” Richtofen moved away from the prisoner, instead moving towards Strasse who had remained rooted to the floor. Their eyes meeting. Yes he could see the man’s dilated pupils shining with something that filled him with dread. He hoped that it was just the morbid environment that had caused Edward’s changes, otherwise Strasse would have to seriously rethink his offer.  
“Your talent can be used elsewhere rather than cutting up these bodies for your sadistic pleasure.” They both glanced at the man bound to the operating table. He had been worryingly quiet. Edward gave a disheartening smile.  
“Is it an order?” The question caught Strasse off guard.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Is it an order, Herr Strasse?” Richtofen repeated with more force this time. He could see what Edward was doing, shifting all the responsibility onto him in case something was to happen. Strasse narrowed his eyes.  
“You were not my first choice, Edward. Let me tell you that.” He hissed, temporarily wiping the smirk from the younger man’s face. “However you are the most suited.”  
He grinned then.  
“But if you wish to be difficult, then yes, it is an order. It will do you some good to get out of this place.”  
Richtofen said nothing, the hideous grin still plastered across his face.  
“You start in five days. You will meet me at the castle for a briefing.” He turned to leave, but stopped himself, his voice low. “You will not make me regret my decision, Edward.” Strasse threatened.  
Nothing more was said as the General left the operating quarters.  
It was only when Strasse was gone did he let his peaceful facade slip. He was suddenly overcome by white hot rage. His whole body shaking with pent up anger. His grip on the knife tightened as he lurched over the body of the prisoner. He brought the knife down hard and fast, a deep scowl clouding his face. The prisoner screamed. He could feel the blade crashing through bone, colliding with the metal table. He brought his arm up and stabbed viciously again and again. A howl of frustration drowning out the prisoners dying screams. How dare he? How dare he hold authority over him?  
It was only when the man’s torso no longer resembled anything human, did the doctor stop. His grip on the bloodied blade no way lessening. He stormed from the room, not caring about his horrifying appearance or the gored blade in his hands. He was going to have to tell Frau Engel of his sudden departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Bitte nicht” - Please no
> 
> Back at it again with the German


	5. A New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward has a 'moment'

He examined the old room hastily. The room itself felt small and cold with its thick stone walls. Far from the luxuries of the camp command building in which he had stayed for so long. It looked exactly like he had left it those many years ago. The documents he had abandoned lay untouched, strewn across his desk. His old uniforms hung in the dark oak dresser. To him it felt like stepping back in time. He wondered why Strasse would have preserved it so. However there was something that caught the doctor’s eye. Folded carefully in the centre of the freshly made bed was a brand new uniform. Richtofen eyed it in distaste.  
“What is that?” He muttered to himself, unceremoniously unfurling the uniform and holding it out in front of him, as far away as he could, as if the clothing before him was putrid, diseased.  
“A Chief Scientist uniform.” A voice spoke from behind him. It was Wilhelm Strasse. He stood in the doorway, an odd smirk across his lips.  
“It’s white.” Edward snorted, throwing the jacket onto the bed, staring at it disbelief.  
“Yes.” Strasse rolled his eyes, he did not remember Edward being so difficult… and childish.  
“It looks like a Reichsmarine dress uniform.” Richtofen spat, his gaze turning to Strasse who had his arms crossed over his chest, watching in a mix of amusement and annoyance. “White is too impractical. I’d rather wear my SS uniform.”  
“As your superior, I will not permit that.” Strasse spoke immediately, any hint of amusement draining from his voice.  
“Just because you don’t want the SS interfering...” Edward spoke largely to himself before trailing off. “Even my DAK uniform was better than this.” He turned, gesturing to the dresser where he knew the old uniform was stored.  
“The DAK doesn’t exist anymore, you and I both know that.” Strasse was beginning to get annoyed. Perhaps this was the reason he had let him go in the first place.  
“You and I both know what happened there*.” Richtofen grinned, a hideous grin that gave even Wilhelm Strasse shivers.  
He would have thought that that memory would have been too painful, too strong for him too even think about, let alone pass as fleeting conversation. He seemed oddly proud. Did he not remember, did he not understand?  
Perhaps they had been to thorough.  
“Look at us talking about the war like an elderly couple.” Strasse uttered, attempted to shift the conversation, but to no avail.  
“I suppose you fought in the First.” Richtofen teased. It was a remark that no sane person would have dared to say, Strasse was sure. Most people were downright terrified of Wilhelm Strasse and his creations and as a result everyone around him would never dare to question him… but to outright insult him? Strasse was forced to let it slide, trying to hide any hint of anger, knowing that it may only make the situation worse if he was to react.  
“You know even those Lunar officer uniforms are more practical than this.” He was pulled from his thoughts as Edward began to speak again. He knew the uniforms in question, the one with red and white- “It would hide all the blood.” He moaned then, his voice strained. “The beautiful blood.”  
Strasse frowned in disgust, before snapping at his new assistant.  
“Edward!” He was beginning to think that Richtofen’s odd behaviour wasn’t just limited to the camp’s environment.  
“Yes?” The man in question gave a curious, almost amused smirk. It was as if he was deliberately trying to annoy him.  
“Focus.” Strasse hissed, but the morbid grin still remained. His need to try and wipe it off Richtofen’s face increasing ten fold.  
A medication for him was beginning to seem more and more necessary. 

The guards in their unanimous, armoured, white uniforms stood orderly, ready to welcome the new Chief Scientist to the Lunar Station. They stood to attention and saluted the moment the white uniform of the Chief Scientist was visible. Strasse had kept the name of the the newly promoted man secret and so many eagerly anticipated who it could be, but out of all the candidates they had expected, they were never expecting the person who actually wore it.  
“Herr Richtofen?” The guard nearest to the entrance uttered in shock. The officer returned the salute.  
“Guten Abend, Gentlemen.” Upon hearing the man’s high-pitched voice, nearly the entire division of guards cringed in fear. This man had been deemed missing for years, he had gone AWOL, at least that’s what Strasse had said. The first thing they had noticed was the deep scar that ran across his cheek. It had not been there before, those many years ago. Had he been in combat? Sent to Russia or Amerika to quash the terrorists as a kind of punishment?  
Then there was the expression on this face, a malicious grin upon his lips and his eyes filled with something akin to madness. As the Chief Scientist walked past them, many of the guards took half a step back in horror and precaution. What on Earth was Strasse thinking?  
Several officers in their red Lunar uniforms strolled forwards to meet their new leader.  
“It is good to have you back.” One of them forced a smile before saluting in his honour. Thankfully Richtofen did not seem to see the worried expressions painted upon the officer’s faces.  
“And it is good to be back.” Edward replied. The guards watched as the group of officers began to withdraw from the entry hall, no doubt to bombard the Chief Scientist with information on whatever scientific experiments were happening within the walls of the Lunar station. They stood there a moment longer, waiting for their cue to be dismissed. 

It couldn’t have happened any quicker. Upon their dismissal, the guards turned into an ordered frenzy, desperate to share the horrific, unnerving news. They ran from block to block, attempting to find friends, colleagues, even vague relatives in order to share the news.  
There seemed to be an odd reception to Richtofen’s return. Many simply did not care, knowing it was out of their control. Others were excited, aware of the man’s great achievements with Wilhelm Strasse, others correctly scared.  
The guards were interrogates for any scraps of information; was he well? Did he look different?”  
“How is Herr Richtofen?” A fellow technician asked the white-clad soldier.  
“At the moment, he is like any other officer, how long it will last, I do not know.” The guard replied in pessimism. That was the extent of their conversation before being moved along. No more words needed to be said. 

Edward Richtofen sat down at his old desk. He observed the room silently and alone. Unlike his room back in the Deathshead Compound, this room had not been cleaned, and a thick layer of dust covered everything like a grey blanket. Clearly Strasse had never anticipated him to leave for so long. He lay back in the dark leather chair, casually rummaging through the desk drawers, nothing seemed to have been moved or missing.  
So unlike Wilhelm, Edward thought.  
He pulled out a few odd documents and began to scan through the text. Plans, designs, orders, letters.  
He felt a familiar buzzing at the back of his head. He dropped the papers on the desk, suddenly clutching his head in pain and worry. He thought something like this might happen.  
“Oh nein.” Richtofen mumbled to himself, desperately checking his pockets for that serum. 

‘What are you doing back here?’

Edward hissed through his teeth. They had appeared much quicker this time.

‘What happened to all the prisoners you could mercilessly slaughter?’

He felt his heart leap at the sudden thought of his crimes. The voices too seemed eager and more relenting as the memories coursed through his mind. He had stopped searching now. 

‘Did you not enjoy it? The blood? The screams? You are a disgusting, Edward.’

He knew he should listen to them no longer. He pulled the small vial of blue liquid from his pocket, one Strasse had given him before he had left for the moon, and a fresh needle from the desk drawer. He wasted no time in injecting the serum into his body. He had had plenty of practise by now and he was a doctor after all.  
Slowly, he could hear them growing quieter as they were silenced one by one. In time the painful buzzing at his temples also diminished into nothing more than a fading headache. It had worked, or so he thought.  
His thoughts were confused, dazed he thought from the newly injected serum. But as they began to become more clear more frequent he realised that the medication had only partially worked. Yes, the voices were gone, but the urges they had brought with them still remained. He rose from his desk and began to pace around the office, attempting to distract himself, only to earn himself a pounding headache. He cursed Strasse, bringing his fingers to his temples.  
The idea of possibly sleeping it off sprang to mind, but almost instantly vanished. There was a possibility that it would only worsen if he ignored it.  
The last thing he wanted to do was go on a killing spree through the Lunar Base. No, that was not what he wanted Doctor Edward Richtofen to be remembered for.  
He reached for the speaker phone and immediately began dialling the extension number, all the while trying to compose himself, trying his best to sound sane.  
He heard the click from the operator, indicating that his call had gone through. He ignored the formalities the soldier would no doubt give him. Instead, he spoke curt and demanding, acting the like he officer he now was.  
“I want a subject brought to operation room 2.2.”  
The soldier took a while to reply. For a moment, Richtofen thought that the man had not heard him. He was beginning to grow impatient.  
“I’m sorry sir, but General Strasse has removed all subjects since your arrival.” Edward growled. He realised why the man had paused before speaking to him. He did not wish to be the bearer of bad news.  
But luckily for him, Richtofen’s mind wasn’t on disciplining troops right now.  
“Can you not send some from Earth?” He could feel the desperation coming through in his voice. Thankfully, the soldier seemed to either not hear it or simply ignored it.  
“I can organise it now, and they will be here in two days.”  
“Two days?” He clutched his head. He could not wait that long. The urge was overwhelming. He could not distract himself.  
“Sir?” The soldier questioned after Edward suddenly when silent.  
“Yes, go ahead and organise it.” He hissed. His sudden outburst, frightening him and putting him back in his place.  
“Yes, certainly.” His words were shaky, like a scolded child.  
Richtofen ended the phone call.  
Two days? He was going to have to come up with some kind of distraction… and fast. Thankfully, it came in the form of another phone call.  
“How are you, Edward?” The voice dripping in morbid sarcasm, belonged to no other than Wilhelm Strasse. This was not what he needed right now. Not to be mocked by his superior.  
“I’m fine.” The German uttered through clenched teeth. Hoping that Strasse may believe him and simply hang up. But alas it was not to be.  
“You do not sound it.” Strasse gave a small laugh. “Tell me, does it have something to do with the lack of subjects.”  
Edward gave no reply. Instead he gripped the table waiting for his urges to stop. He groaned as he tried desperately to ignore his thoughts.  
“It is interesting how only you can cause yourself pain.” Strasse mused, but Richtofen knew the words were more than a taunt.  
Edward relinquished the table and instead reached for his knife.  
“I’ve given you an idea haven’t I?” Richtofen’s no reply confirmed his suspicions.  
The Chief Scientist undid his cufflinks and rolled his left sleeve up. With precision he trailed the knife along his arm. Once the blood had begun to well up he immediately dropped the knife. It fell to the floor in a loud clatter. But the Scientist did not notice this, he was far to engrossed in his bleeding arm. He licked the blood from his wound.  
“Edward?” Strasse laughed. “Do not get too carried away. You will make yourself ill.” It was only when Edward began to lose his vision did he stop. Slowly he withdrew from the wound. It needed bandaging. He stood up, only to sway and half collapse into his desk.  
“You really are a freak, Edward.”  
“You… you wanted… bloodlust… and that’s… what… you got.” Richtofen stammered.  
“You need to exercise restraint. You have allowed these urges to dominate you for over a year and now you must get them under control.”  
Edward had managed to get himself to stand and was slowly making his way to the cupboard in his office, the cupboard that held medical supplies.  
“What if I was to tell everyone what you’ve been doing for the past year?” His voice was sly, but still Edward ignored it, his attention returning to his arm.  
Edward removed a gauze from the cupboard. He looked down at his arm. It was still bleeding. Little rivulets of red were running down his arm, winding down to his fingertips.  
“That you’ve tortured thousands for you sick enjoyment-”  
“I can’t.” Richtofen suddenly blurted. Strasse noticed the change in tone. Desperation that was not there a moment ago.  
“Can’t what?” He spoke already knowing the answer.  
“I can’t control it!” Edward slammed himself against his desk and bent over the speaker phone. Shouting into it.  
“Please, please bring the subjects back! I need them! I need it!”  
Strasse gave a loud burst of laughter.  
“Edward you are behaving like when we first met. You must calm down.”  
“I am supposed to be on the battlefield. You know this.” His voice becoming higher as he whined. Only causing Strasse to continue laughing.  
“The war is over. You need to learn to adapt, my young assistant. I will be increasing the dosage of that medication. It seems you need it.”  
Richtofen scowled as he finally managed to fix the gauze to his wound.  
“There is a transport arriving in half and hour. There might be something on it for you.”  
“Half an hour?” Edward questioned, his arm no longer providing the distraction he desperately needed.  
“Can you not even wait that long?”  
Strasse never got a reply, instead he heard the audible click as Edward ended the call. He smiled inwardly. Everything seemed to be going to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of clarifications...  
> DAK- Deutsche Afrika Korps - refers back to Richtofen’s original uniform, most likely chosen by Treyarch as it is the most PC out of all the German divisions. 
> 
> *This is a reference to The Man In The High Castle that I don’t think anyone will get. (The book not the shitty Amazon adaptation)


	6. Kreisau

He eagerly watched as the cargo craft docked inside the Lunar Station. As the bay doors opened, two robots clambered out of the vessel. The machines seemed to notice him, watching him, clearly Strasse had reprogrammed them. The robots hurried removing supplies from the ship, but still Richtofen waited. They carried crate after crate, but every now and again they would turn to face the Chief Scientist, studying him. The pilot of the craft seemed to notice the robots’ odd behaviour, watching from behind the glass windshield. But yet he did not act, it was not his business anyway.   
It was the last thing they unloaded.  
He watched in anticipation as a single soldier dragged the test subject from the ship. But his excitement fell to horror as he realised what Strasse had sent him.  
A very elderly woman.   
Surely it was a joke, yes? Edward could feel his cheeks flushing red in hatred as he thought of how Strasse was lounging back on Earth, no doubt laughing to himself as if the whole thing was some kind of hilarious practical joke.   
The woman would no doubt die of shock the moment she saw the knife.   
The voices would be displeased.   
In a fit of rage he grabbed the advancing soldier by the rim of his helmet and aimed his luger at his hostage’s temple. Both of the robots immediately raised their weapons.   
The pilot disappeared within the spacecraft. The prisoner did the same.   
“Release your hostage or you will be forcibly removed.” The metallic monotonous tone of a robot rang out in the air. Their optics blindingly red as they advanced on the troublemaker.   
“I would not have to do this if Strasse sent me better subjects!” Richtofen spat. The soldier began to shiver in fright, he could feel the others urge to kill him.   
Without warning, the Chief Scientist shot at both robots, shattering their optics and blinding them. He released the soldier and ran behind one of the disorientated robots. He immediately pulled off a panel and began rewiring it and typing in codes. He had to be quick. It seemed to happen in seconds.   
“Oh we’re going to have fun.” Richtofen hissed through clenched teeth as he secured the panel back in place. Both droids seemed to reboot then, turning to acknowledge each other and then the Chief Scientist. It was not yet obvious what exactly he had done to the towering machines.  
He turned to the soldier who had was just about to make off.  
“Come here!” Richtofen shouted at the top of his voice. The soldier unwillingly obliged.   
“Where did you think you were going?” His words he spoke with venom. He cowered in fear. He knew this would never end well, but yet he tried to explain himself.  
“I-” The soldier never got to begin his sentence as Richtofen aimed his pistol and shot the man in the centre of his head. He crumpled to the floor. The soldier’s name was Hans Hoffmann. His family were later told he died in a mechanician incident.   
“NO!” He snapped around, scowling as he attempted to locate the source of the horrified scream.   
It had come from the old woman.   
He stormed towards her, his luger still tightly gripped in his hand. His seething anger did in no way deter her. She stood defiantly as the Chief Scientist approached her. He grabbed her roughly and threw her against the spacecraft. Her back colliding painfully against the metal. But yet she stared him in the eye, searching. Instead all she found was hatred twinged with insanity.  
He looked at her in distaste, as if she was something vile and disgusting, something you would find on the bottom of your shoe.  
“Edward, how could you? How could you kill in cold blood?” The woman wailed, attempting to reach out and grab him, as if testing to see if he was real. He swatted her hands away.   
“So a prisoner that knows my name?” Richtofen spat, his free hand itching closer towards his sheathed dagger.   
“Edward… Why are you wearing that uniform?” She continued, as if his last words meant nothing, as if his violent attitude was invisible.   
“I have no idea who you are and I suggest you stop talking.” He gritted his teeth, holstering his pistol. Somehow he was going to have to drag this prisoner to an operating room and her questions were beginning to irk him.   
“Oh, Edward please tell me this is all a facade. Please snap out of it!” He struck her hard across the face. The back of her head painfully hitting the metal spacecraft. She fell to her knees, dazed, tears beginning to fall.  
“You really don’t know who I am?” The woman whispered, blinking through wet eyes.   
Richtofen was getting sick of this. He grabbed the woman by her long white hair and dragged her too her feet.   
“Edward, stop it. Please!” She screamed in protest, reciting it over and over. A malicious grin began to form on his lips. Dragging her by her hair through the Lunar Station. Fortunately it was not far. Unfortunately she would only meet her demise sooner.   
“Herr Richtofen? Where is her escort?” A patrolling soldier called out, his grip tightening on his rifle as he noticed the approaching duo. They were only several yards away from the operating rooms.   
“I shot him.” Richtofen hissed. Opening the door and pushing the woman inside. The soldier inched backwards, unsure how to proceed. The door slammed behind him.  
Richtofen threw the woman upon the table. She screamed, but gave little in protest as he fastened her restraints. Edward saw it as weakness, she saw it as bringing forward the inevitable.   
Once finished, he straightened himself to his full height and met the woman’s gaze. Much to his surprise she held no expression of fear, merely one of confusion, confusion and pity.  
This annoyed him immensely. Hatred once again began to overcome him, clouding his judgement.   
“My dear boy, what have they done to you? I thought you were dead.” Her words were spoken softly, a stark contrast to the expression upon the Chief Scientist’s face.   
“I said be quiet.” He uttered dangerously.   
“Edward?” For a moment something flashed upon her face. Richtofen was certain it was fear. He smiled inwardly as morbid, torturous thoughts filled his mind.   
“I’m going to have to discipline you.” He chided, slowly stepped forwards, reaching out across her to grasp her hands. For a moment he held them, thumbing them through his leather gloves. He struck like a coiled serpent. Violently jerking her fingers backwards.   
A hideous snapping sound filled the room, followed by the woman’s screams. Jagged bone jutted out through flesh and tendons. They would never be fixed.   
A thin line of red began to stain the cuff of the Chief Scientist’s jacket. But he didn’t seem to notice. Yes, it was definitely fear he had seen in her eyes, for now it covered her face. He grinned, pleased with himself.   
She remained silent this time.   
He took a step back and pulled his dagger from its scabbard. She was crying, Richtofen couldn’t tell if it was from pain he had just inflicted or from fear. She looked at him in defeat, in acceptance. Almost a look of pity.  
Why did she pity him?  
She noticed the look of confusion upon his face and once again ignored his demands.  
“I know what you did. I know who you really are.”  
He brought the knife down hard on the right-hand side of her torso. She screamed in pain. He stabbed her again and again across her intestines and kidneys. It was not enough to kill her. He stopped suddenly, admiring his handiwork.   
“What I did was wrong.” His voice was low, dark, filled with morbid intent. “Why kill innocents, when I should be destroying filthy traitors, when I can further my research under the glorious German Reich!”  
For a moment there was silence, as if she had trouble comprehending that this man had just uttered those words. That they had come from his mouth. She seemed shocked, in disbelief.   
“You’d be better off dead.” She shouted in an equally matching hatred.   
There it was, the empty desperate threats. He laughed at her, a twisted insane laugh. She cringed at the sound of it. It was a sound she never dared to even imagine he was capable of making. Coming from him it seemed so wrong, a justification of just how far gone Edward Richtofen really was.   
He moved in closer, looming over his prey. A maniacal grin plastered across his face.  
“You really think so?” Smiling in mock-hurt. He gripped the knife in his hand and stared at it adoringly.  
She noticed the sudden change in his mood. Gone was the ferocious hatred, replaced with what? Excitement, a deranged maddening lust.   
She did not move, she did not speak. For this sudden change petrified her as she watched him succumb to insanity.   
“You know I just want to peel your skin from you, like prosciutto.” She instinctively flinched away at his words. He noticed and smiled.  
“What’s wrong, my dear?” His voice dripping with morbid sweetness. She began to pull at the restraints then. Pain shooting through her damaged hands. He held the knife just over the top of her chest.   
“Edward, please!” She was panicking now. She had to tell herself that that was not him. That was not her Edward, but instead a torturous monster in his skin. Nothing more than a twisted Nazi.   
He reached out and caressed her skin, just above her heart.   
Her breath hitched in her throat. One false move and she knew he would kill her.   
His mind seemed made up then. His manic grin widening as he brought the knife down across her chest.   
She screamed as she felt the blade cut through flesh. His focus was entirely on the deep wound he had inflicted. He licked his lips, breathing heavily.   
She couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead she closed her eyes and steeled herself. Waiting for the ordeal to be over. 

Wilhelm Strasse stormed through London Nautica, his destination - a lunar spacecraft headed for the moon. He took no joy from his future expedition, but unfortunately it seemed necessary. Perhaps he should have kept a closer eye on his rogue assistant? But that was all in the past now. He could spy the huge silver metallic craft not a few hundred yards away and with that the patrolling guards and robots.   
He automatically withdrew his papers and passes as he passed the security desk, showing them carelessly before sauntering on.  
But a guard called him back.  
He turned around somewhat confused and somewhat angered.   
“Herr Strasse, I am sorry but you are not on any of our databases.” The soldier protested, the others watching in curiosity.   
“What? But I have a flight scheduled in half an hour!” The guard ignored the officer’s outburst and instead began to type into the computer before him.   
“It appears that you were removed by Automat #5571 and it was authorised by Automat #3762.” The guard gave a quizzical expression. “Infact, you’ve been removed completely from the Lunar Station’s software. It must just be a miscommunication somewhere.” The man uttered as he noticed Strasse’s poisonous gaze.   
“What were the two robots sent with the last shipment to the Lunar Station?” Strasse hissed quietly, the soldier nodded and silently began his orders. He could feel the other man’s anger at the situation. There was no way he wanted to be executed for this.   
“Number 5571 and 3762, sir.” The guard suddenly splurted. So it wouldn’t be his fault, perhaps if he could pass the blame onto-  
“Richtofen! Of course. I knew he’d do something like this.” Strasse yelled, his hands balling into fists. The guard was confused.   
“The Chief Scientist? But surely even he does not have access to such software to reprogramme these robots?”  
“Of course he does, he’s the one who…” Strasse trailed off, his eyes meeting the concerned and curious gaze of the guarding soldier.   
“Who what?” He questioned, eager to know what Strasse was about to let slip.   
“Never mind.” The officer grated his teeth, but yet the guard didn’t seem to notice.  
“Sir, this is a criminal act and whoever is responsible must be punished accordingly.”  
“I said nevermind! It is just a software malfunction. That is all!” Strasse ignored the guards protest and continued his journey to the spacecraft, from where in a few hours, he would ultimately arrive upon the moon. 

Cupped in his hands was a shiny red organ. He held it there. Gripping it for what felt like hours. Simply staring at it.   
In fact it had only been around a minute or two.  
The woman had stopped moving around five.   
He gently caressed it with his thumb, carefully studying it, the veins, the cellular structure… the way blood still oozed from its orefaces.   
The room was silent now, save for the mad doctor’s excited breaths.  
It seemed such a contrast to just a moment ago when he had pulled the still beating organ from her screaming body.   
He fell to his knees, leaning back against the rancid wall. Deeply aroused by the organs within his hands.   
Blood began to seep through his thin leather gloves, through the stitching and dripping down his wrists and cuff onto his lap.   
“Doctor Richtofen?” So engrossed he did not hear the knock on the door or the call for his name.   
“Doctor Richtofen?” The voice was louder, the knocks more forceful.   
He heard it that time, the call for his name bringing him back to sanity. He coughed, pocketing the organ. It would no doubt be used in an experiment later, and rose to his feet. Upon standing he realised just what a mess he was. He looked more like a butcher than a scientist.  
Living up to his nickname.  
His white tunic was ruined, along with his white trousers. Stained with patches of blood that no amount of bleaching would remove. The cuffs of his sleeves were the worst, soaked in the red liquid. He quickly removed the jacket, hoping that it hadn’t seeped through to his dress shirt underneath. He was largely lucky. Only the hem of his sleeves were stained. It looked like he had just carried out a gory experiment.  
That was all.   
He slowly sauntered over to the metal door, picking up his discarded dagger, aiming to sheath it and opened the door. The soldier who stood behind it took an involuntary step backwards upon noticing the Doctor’s appearance.   
“Doctor Richtofen?” The soldier repeated, his voice wavering slightly.   
“What?” Richtofen spat, forgetting that the bloodied knife was still within his grip. The soldier glanced at it anxiously.   
“Doctor Strasse will be arriving in 12 hours.” The soldier watched as the officer’s features melted into a sneer at the name.  
“Is that it?” Richtofen hissed as he pushed passed the man.   
“There is one more… the soldier you shot…” He stammered before trailing off, struggling to meet the Doctor’s gaze.   
“What about it?” He could see the officer becoming irritated, but the soldier couldn’t help but feel irritated too. This man had just shot an innocent man for no apparent reason and all he could say for himself was ‘what about it’. He felt sick. How could anyone have such a lack of compassion?   
“What do you want put on his death certificate?” His voice was more rigid this time, he did well to hide his disgust.   
“Anything, just don’t link it back to me.” The Doctor stormed off.


	7. Lunar Base

They sat a good five foot apart from each other, separated by a grand oak desk. At the head of it sat Wilhelm Strasse, his cap resting upon the green leather bound surface. A small smirk upon his lips.  
At the other end sat Edward Richtofen, his arms crossed, a sneer of discontempt across his face. He had changed his uniform since ‘incident’ a dozen hours ago.   
They had sat in silence, hatred crackling between them, ultimately it was Strasse who spoke first, asking a question that was burning in his mind.  
“Why did you remove me from the entirety of the virtual database and stored records?”  
Edward’s sneer deepened, his eyes narrowing dangerously.   
“I was hoping that someone might ask for your papers, realise that no Wilhelm Strasse existed and then shoot you in the face.” He uncrossed his arms and straightened his visor. Calming himself, mimicking disappointment. “But alas it was not to be.”  
Strasse growled, but was otherwise silent as he listened to his botched assassination.   
Now it was Edward’s turn to do the questioning.   
“What did you send me?” Edward snarled. Strasse couldn’t help but smile.   
“You don’t know?” He smiled incredulously at Richtofen’s heightening anger.   
“No, I don’t! Explain who she was!” He snapped. Strasse turned his attention to the hem of his jacket in an attempt to hide his laughter, knowing that it would only infuriate his assistant further.   
“She was the leader of the Kreisau Circle. Sophia Holtz, does that name mean anything to you?”  
“No! Should it?!” Edward jumped from his seat, his hands balled into fists. He hated the fact that he seemed to be in the dark here. That some crucial memory seemed to be missing. He knew his mental health was perhaps not the best it should be and it only confused him further and he hated being confused.   
“Edward, calm yourself.” Strasse gestured for the man to return to his seat. Giving an audible growl, Richtofen sat down. He removed his cap, running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair before replacing it. “I thought something like this might happen. So I have her file.”  
Strasse handed the A4 brown envelope over to his still seething assistant. He cautiously took it, his black gloves peeling it open.   
He sneered at what he read.  
“She’s nothing more than a filthy traitor.”   
Strasse’s breath hitched at Richtofen’s words. He really had forgotten then. There was no way he would have said that otherwise. He frowned, staring at Edward as he dumped the envelope on the desk. The other seemed to notice, glaring at his superior.   
“Edward, I would like to take a blood test.” The man scowled, but otherwise compiled by removing his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeve just above the elbow. Strasse removed a needle from the bottom right draw of the desk and stood up, walking over to his next patient.   
Much to Strasse’s dismay, Edward watched in childlike fascination as the needle entered his skin and filled with a dark red. He tried his best to ignore it.   
He pulled the syringe from the man’s arm and approached a nearby computer.  
“You know what this is?” Strasse asked his assistant.  
“Of course.” Richtofen hissed as he pulled down his sleeve and replaced his jacket, rolling his eyes as if Strasse’s words were an insult.   
Strasse placed the small vial of blood into compartment within the computer, which immediately hummed to life, scanning its contents.  
What Strasse read from the monitor of that small computer, answered all of his questions.  
“Edward, there is three times the amount of element in your bloodstream than there should be. Are you experimenting on yourself?” Strasse questioned, his voice forceful. He turned to face his assistant. He felt like a parent discovering misdeed that their child had committed.   
“No.” Richtofen murmured, not meeting Strasse’s gaze. His lie perhaps a little too obvious.  
“So if I was to inject you will this…” Strasse reached into his pocket and withdrew a small vial of an orange liquid. It couldn’t have contained more than a few millimeters of the substance, but yet Richtofen recognised it instantly. His breath hitched in his throat.   
“No, not that.” Strasse grinned at Edward’s sudden uncomfortableness. It was a rare sight indeed.   
“Well? I think you’d better explain yourself.” The General pressed. Only to be met with silence as the doctor stared off, clearly struggling to explain his motives. Richtofen sighed, touching his temples before returning Strasse’s gaze.  
“The voices...” Edward broke eye contact, instead staring at his lap, clearly ashamed. He felt like a patient again, a perverse switch in authority that he could not stand.   
“They’ve come back?” Strasse nearly shouted, his voice ringing with alarm. He thought they were gone. Edward hadn’t spoken of it for over twenty years.   
“They never left.” Edward admitted. Strasse frowned. Yes, it clearly explained Edward’s increased instability since he had last seen him.  
“Here, I have a new medication for you. I suggest you take it.” From the top draw of his desk, Strasse withdrew a small wooden box, inside the box was two dozen small capsules of a blue liquid, ready for injection. Edward took it wordlessly. 

“I’ve found something!” Blazkowicz yelled as he stormed into the Comms room, newspaper flailing in his hands. Both Set and Caroline looked at one another in doubt, knowing full well no good would come from this.   
“What did you find, Blazkowicz?” Set tried his best to give an encouraging smile.   
“It’s not good news, I’ll tell you that. Looks like he’s up to what he does best, fucking sadist.” Blazkowicz spat as he threw the crumpled newspaper upon the table. He pointed to a small column in the bottom left corner of the newspaper. Only about an inch big. They stared at it, not wanting to read the words printed there. So Blazkowicz read it for them.  
“Today the notorious terrorist and ex-leader of the Kreisau Circle, Sophia Hoffmann was executed today.” Upon hearing that name, they zoned out as Blazkowicz continued wading through the propaganda. It felt as if their world had shattered.   
Caroline swallowed the lump forming in the back of her throat and she suddenly turned her attention to her hands. In the corner of her eye she could see Set, white as a sheet staring at her.   
Blazkowicz didn’t seem to notice.  
“Look here, right at the end.” Blazkowicz shouted. “She was executed by the newly promoted Doctor Edward Richtofen.”  
“Sophia.” Caroline muttered, her head in her hands. Set reached out to comfort her.   
“There will be none of us left soon.” She cried, makes no effort to hide her tears. Set looked like he was going to be sick.  
Blazkowicz looked up from his paper. His triumphant grin melted from his lips.   
“I had no idea you were close.” He murmured attempting to condole the pair.   
“We were all in the Circle, until the Nazis broke it.” Caroline hissed. She took her leave then. No one followed her. 

Those who were unaware of the return of General Strasse’s assistant soon found out as rumours spread like wildfire. Herr Strasse’s insane assistant had returned and apparent he had gotten worse, much, much worse.  
Despite this, there were some who could use this to their somewhat gruesome advantage.   
Such as dealing with rather difficult tourists.   
Tourists to the moon were not uncommon. In fact it was a popular holiday destination, largely reserved for the rich and high ranking. And because of that there tended to be a lot of awkward boasting that caused both the soldiers and the officers of the Lunar Station to cringe in annoyance.   
“Who is the Chief here?” A blonde, blue eyed woman once asked a guard. They knew her type; middle aged, no longer at the height of their beauty, forced to brag on the achievements of their husbands or children. The soldier visibly tensed.  
“Chief Scientist Richtofen.” He replied. Those who recognised the name shifted and continued their stay in silence, but this particular woman did not.  
“I have not heard of this man, perhaps you can tell me a bit about him.” The woman demanded, clearly accusing the soldier. Her attempt at reversing authority would not end well.   
“A lot of Herr Richtofen’s work is classified, mein Frau.”  
“My husband is a high ranking SS officer, I’m sure he can find out a bit about him.” She ignored the soldier’s warning, abusing her husband’s rank instead.  
“I would advise against that.” His words were harsh, insisting. She seemed completely oblivious.   
“Well then, I would like to meet him.” The soldier laughed and turned to his colleague.  
“She would like to meet the Chief Scientist.” He grinned as if he had never heard anything so stupid, so ignorant in all his life.  
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” The other smirked.  
They led the woman down bleach white corridors that would have otherwise have been restricted. She did not study her surrounding though. Instead, she walked purposefully, head up, eyes forward, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Oh yes, this would be a story to tell her friends when she got back. A story of how she got to meet the Chief Scientist of the Lunar Station. They approached an unassuming metal door. Unassuming except for the fact that it had DR. E. RICHTOFEN plastered across it in black paint. The soldiers knocked loudly before entering.   
The door opened soundlessly. A single soldier entered first, the other kept watch on their guest. The woman fidgeting nervously, trying her best to create some kind of flattering smile that didn’t convey gloating anticipation. The door opened again, giving her the all clear to enter. She stood between the two soldiers, her hands clasped behind her back.  
“There is a woman who would like to meet you, sir.” The Chief Scientist looked up from his desk, studying the newcomer to his office. To his surprise. He noticed the woman did not appear to have any interest in her surroundings, merely him.  
“I wanted to know a bit about you.” She gave a nervous giggle, that perhaps, many a decade ago, would have set mens heart’s racing. Richtofen rose from his seat, failing to hide his smile.  
“Oh the contrary, I would like to get to know you.” Both of the soldiers glanced at each other. They knew he did not mean that personality wise.   
The woman gave a flirtatious giggle.  
“Where would you have us take her?” The soldier on her left questioned.  
“Operating room 3.7.”  
“Operating?” Then she heard it. She did not know how should could have been so oblivious to it before. The room was filled with human screams and it deafened her. On the walls, stacked on shelves were organs, human organs, all meticulously labelled and ordered. Now she knew who Richtofen was.  
She screamed.  
The Chief Scientist gave a twisted laugh as he stalked closer to his next ‘patient’. The soldiers were forced to grip the woman as he began to thrash against them.   
As he approached her, he gripped her jaw, examining her. She could see something in the Scientist’s acid green eyes… and it looked unnatural.   
“You will make a wunderbar subject.” Richtofen purred as he ran his leather-clad fingers across the skin of her cheek.  
“No, you can’t, my husband, he’s-he’s…” She stammered before falling silence. Slowly becoming aware that her husband would not be here to save her. Her children would not be here to save her. She was completely alone at the mercy of a madman. A madman who had the authority to do whatever the hell he pleased.   
“Your death will be nothing but another number on a sheet of statistics.” He grinned before gesturing for the soldiers and the woman to leave him.

Blazkowicz kept his head down as he walked purposefully through the Lunar Station, brief case in hand. Not just six hours ago, he was walking upon the Earth. Now, however, as he glanced out of one of the gigantic glass windows at the grey cratered surface, he was on the moon.  
This is some crazy fucked up shit, Blazkowicz thought to himself.   
He was approaching a security desk. He had walked through plenty before in his scientist’s get up, but everytime he felt his heart race with caution. He handed his papers to the guard.  
“So your the new scientist.” The guard observed. “The Chief Scientist will want to see you.” Blazkowicz nodded, pretending to care as he reached for the little booklet, but the soldier suddenly snatched it back. Had he seen something? Did he recognize him? He swallowed nervously.  
“Since you’re new here I ought to tell you,” the soldier whispered, barely audible. “The Chief Scientist can be a bit… unstable. Just do what he wants and you’ll be fine.” The guard handed Blazkowicz’s papers back, who then turned to leave.  
“Whatever he wants.” The soldier reiterated darkly.   
Great another loony, Blazkowicz thought as he proceeded through the building. But as he found himself pacing further and further towards the centre of the station, he couldn’t help but think about taking down that Chief Scientist.   
He was still pissed that that psycho, Richtofen had survived.   
He had his mind set. He was going to find that Chief Scientist. Blazkowicz stopped a nearby soldier and asked him where he would find this man. The guard looked at him in nervous confusion before answering his question.   
He would not make the same mistake twice.   
He knew he was going off course by doing this, that he was going in the completely opposite direction to the nuclear codes they so desperately desired.  
And to Blazkowicz’s worry, the Lunar Bass was far larger than he had expected, finding himself forced to ask fellow officers or soldiers where the Chief Scientist’s office may be.   
When he finally go there, the name scrawled across the large metal doors made him blanch.   
Richtofen is a common name in Germany, right?  
Blazkowicz wasn’t so sure.   
He slowly reached for the cold steel handle, gently pulling on it, attempting to open the door as quietly as he could. He pushed the door open a fraction, the leatherbound case close to his chest to avoid it hitting the door or wall as he silently slipped inside.  
He temporarily froze, surveying his surroundings. Right at the other end of the room, some twenty foot or so away, stood the Chief Scientist in his stark white uniform. Conveniently he had his back turned to him. Blazkowicz paused. The Scientist seemed to be looking up, staring at something. Blazkowicz followed his gaze but could see nothing. He slowly stalked closer, attempting to hide along the walls, but as he did so, he realised that the German was uttering something. For a brief moment he panicked, worried that it might not just be him and the Chief Scientist within the room. He attempted to make out what exactly the man was saying.  
“Nein. Noch nicht. Lass mich allein.” Blazkowicz froze, realising that the German appeared to be talking to himself.   
Wow, he really is a loony, Blazkowicz thought to himself. He took this moment of distraction to edge ever closer to the Nazi.   
But then it seemed all to coincidental. An insane German who ran by the name Richtofen.   
There couldn’t be more than one?  
He chose his moment then, dropping the case silently on the floor and withdrawing the laserkraftwerk.   
“Alright asshole, hands in the air!” Blazkowicz yelled as he slowly moved within range, his finger hovering over the trigger. The German stopped staring into space and turned around a grin upon his face. It was now that Blazkowicz learnt just who exactly the Chief Scientist of the Lunar Station was and he gritted his teeth in annoyance.   
“You’re the fucking Chief Scientist?” Blazkowicz yelled, locking eyes with one of the worst Nazis that he had ever met, and bearing in mind how many Nazis Blazkowicz had met and killed, it was a pretty long list.   
“Oh Mr Blazkowicz we meet again.” The sheer joy of having an intruder was beyond evident on the German’s face. Blazkowicz knew what thoughts were running through the man’s mind and he didn’t want to be subjected to any of them.  
“I’m gonna make sure you die this time, Kraut.” He hissed as he tightened his grip around the laserkraftwerk.  
“Oh, I’d like to see you try.” Richtofen giggled. That was it. Blazkowicz had had it to hell with this man. Even now as he took aim, he had the audacity to laugh at him. A high-pitched peel of laughter that jarred his bones. He couldn’t stand it. Hell, he couldn’t understand how the other Krauts could stand it. He locked his gaze with the German and pulled the trigger.   
What Blazkowicz expected to see what a mass of charred flesh and clothing splattered across the floor. Instead the Chief Scientist stood before him, doubled over in a violent fit of laughter.   
He pulled the trigger again. And again, and again, but nothing happened. He stared at the weapon before him in utter confusion.   
“Ze zhing about a prototype weapon is,” the Nazi giggled as he wiped away a tear, “Zhey have a remote shut off.” He fell back into another fit of laughter.   
“You WHAT?!” Blazkowicz looked down at the lump of metal in his hands and then at the cackling German.  
“Ah ja, ze laserkraftwerk.” Richtofen spoke, regaining his breath, but the grin still remaining. “It would have been a tremendous weapon of destruction, if Strasse hadn’t limited its power. Now it is nozhing more zhan a petty metal cutter. Such a pity.” He pouted like a child then. Blazkowicz instead had a hard time understanding what the German had just said. This man was nothing more than a murderer set loose on a bunch of prisoners, well that’s what Blazkowicz had thought anyway.   
“You know this weapon?”  
“Of course.” Richtofen smiled, rocking back on his heels. Blazkowicz’s narrowed his eyes.  
“Who the fuck are you?” He spat the question that had been on his mind for months now, only to receive the same answer again and again.   
“Zhat’s for you to find out.” The Nazi smiled as he withdrew his luger and aimed it at the terrorist. “Now drop ze gun.”  
“No.” Blazkowicz hissed. He was desperately seeking alternatives on how to take down this Nazi. He had half a mind just to chuck the laser cutter at him.   
“Uh oh, wrong answer.” Richtofen sung childishly as he fired his pistol without warning, the bullet colliding with the laserkraftwerk and ricocheting off. Blazkowicz jumped back in surprise.  
“What the fuck man?!” He shouted, only to be met with crazed laughter. The man straightened himself to his full height and took aim once again, cocking his weapon.   
“I von’t ask you again, Mr Blazkowicz.” The German slowly began to stalk forwards, his finger hovering dangerously over the trigger.   
“If I drop this thing, you’re just gonna shoot me anyway.” He eyed Richtofen’s gun in fear.  
“Perhaps,” The Nazi grinned. “But I vouldn’t kill you. I like you too much.”  
“You’re fucking insane.” Blazkowicz uttered as he watched the German come closer.   
“Ja, and maybe zhat will be your saviour, but for now-“ Richtofen pulled the trigger once again, the bullet mere centimetres from his temple.   
“I get it. I get it.” He threw the laserkraftwerk on the floor, somewhat confused, somewhat intrigued by the Nazis words. What did he mean by saviour? Perhaps in his demented mind that meant executioner.   
“Wunderschön.” Richtofen gave a small smile before walking back towards his desk.  
“Wait, what are you doing?” Blazkowicz took half a step forwards, only to be looking down the barrel of a Luger. The German walked behind his desk, a wide grin upon his lips. He opened the top draw of his desk and let his hand hover there.   
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare!” Richtofen’s grin grew wider at the American’s mounting panic.   
“Uh oh.” He teased childishly as his gloved fingers flicked the switch. A high pitched continuous alarm filled their ears, temporarily deafening them. The German fell into a fit of laughter.   
“Jesus Christ!” Blazkowicz shouted. He turned and ran towards the door. Richtofen fired. Bullets narrowly missing their target. He shouted then, his voice loud and clear over the intercom of the Lunar Station.   
“Terrorist alert in Sector 6. BRING ME WILLIAM BLAZKOWICZ!” He watched as the American disappeared out of the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations  
> “Diese hier” - This one  
> “Ein schönes Exemplar.” - A beautiful example  
> “Er ist einer von Frau Engel.” - He is one of Frau Engel’s  
> “Ich will ihn noch in Block 6.” - I want him in Block 6  
> “Nein. Ich kann das nicht.” - No. I can not do that  
> “Sogar für die Frauen?” - Even for the women?  
> “Fein. Aber Sie wissen, wie Frau Engel bekommt, wenn Sie einen von ihr zu töten.” - Fine. But you know how Frau Engel gets when you kill one of hers  
> “Mach dir keine Sorgen.” - Do not worry yourself  
> “Alles gut?” All good?  
> “Natürlich.” - Of course


End file.
